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<title>poet: erised by alondra (alaundry)</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29204133">poet: erised</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/alaundry/pseuds/alondra'>alondra (alaundry)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>ichor universe [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Body Horror, Gaslighting, Medical Trauma, Mental Instability, Non-Consensual Electroconvulsive Therapy, Non-Consensual Violence, Original Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 05:22:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>511</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29204133</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/alaundry/pseuds/alondra</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>oliver visits a therapist, at the behest of his mother. or is she a psychiatrist?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>ichor universe [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2144103</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>poet: erised</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>“I see no tragedy.”</b>
</p><p>Oliver’s thick brows furrowed. He tilted his head to the side almost completely, his neck making crackling and popping sounds as it did. He winced. God, he needed to see a chiropractor or something.</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“Mm. See a chiropractor about that neck, that was really loud.”</p><p>“I’m fine.”</p><p>Scribbling. Oliver watched as the extremely well-dressed woman wrote down… <em> something </em> in her notes. She did that a lot, and he assumed it was par for the course for most good therapists— at least effective therapists. Psychiatrists.</p><p>What was she, again? </p><p>“What I mean by tragedy is… you can be fixed. You’re not a lost cause. Does that make sense?”</p><p>Oliver began to perform the same handwashing motions he always did when he started to feel anxious. “Yeah, sort of. Except I… w-well, I never said that I thought I was a… a <em> lost cause </em> , I just <em> feel </em> lost, sometimes. It’s hard to ground myself. Sometimes, I’ll get into these <em> fits </em> where my mind just wanders into these… s-scenarios that, if I found myself in them in real life, I would immediately start breaking down.”</p><p>“So… what do you do when you get into these headspaces?”</p><p>He shrugged, leaning back on the couch and squirming around breathlessly. He was infinitely uncomfortable and couldn’t see how he could get comfortable again. “Just… feel lost.”</p><p>“It sounds like your sympathetic nervous system acts up when you get into these fits. You feel panicked, yes? It’s like you’re actually there, in that situation— in real life.”</p><p>Oliver grimaced. <em> What? </em> “I don’t feel… panicked, I feel <em> lost </em>. It doesn’t really scare me, I just get really sad, and depressed, and… I don’t know what to do about it. You said you see no tragedy, but it feels pretty tragic.”</p><p>“Now, calm down, Mr. Havens, or I’ll have to call security in to escort you to your inpatient room.”</p><p>He began sputtering and scoffing in confusion. This was coming out of nowhere. What was she talking about? Oliver hadn’t even started to raise his voice. He had been sitting there politely, just like his mother would have screamed at him to. But now he was getting confused.</p><p>“What are you talking about?”</p><p>His therapist sighed with the weight of a thousand patients’ carcasses pulling at her lungs. “I can’t say I didn’t warn you. Security! Can I get security in here? We have a patient ready for his room!” </p><p>Oliver stood up on instinct. He shot a glance at the door just as it burst open, and three burly men in the hospital’s uniforms stepped through it. He started to shrink in on himself as they approached, and he turned to stare at the therapist. She had morphed now, a sharpened vulture perched on the couch’s armrest. Her neon-yellow claws gripped at the fabric, cotton slipping through the seams and between her digits. They were daggers, and she snickered at Oliver as he was forced onto his knees with his arms behind his head. </p><p>“Goodnight, Mr. Haven. Enjoy your first night.”</p>
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